


Marseille

by Medusa (MyOhMandy)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Post canon, post wotl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:01:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOhMandy/pseuds/Medusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post Wrath of the Lamb story that looks at Will and Hannibal's lives together, based on a prompt I'll reveal after chapter two. :) For my Hannigram Holiday Exchange buddy unnaturalredhead on tumblr!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

            Will and Hannibal had been settled in Marseille, France, for about two months, and Hannibal was getting tired of the smell of fish.

            “Hannibal, I’ve always been a fisherman.” Will replied, skinning one of the trout he’d brought home for dinner that night. “Besides, they sell pretty well. We can’t all live off of family fortunes.” 

            To Hannibal’s credit, this was probably the fifteenth time they’d had dinner brought home from the Vieux Port that month, and there was only so much any chef, even Hannibal, could do with seafood. There was also the matter of the smell; one could hardly expect to spend an entire morning fishing on a dock and not come home reeking of it, and it was a scourge upon Hannibal’s sensitive nose. He insisted Will shower immediately after coming home from the Vieux Port, chiding lightly of the unpleasant smell that came from being a small-time fishmonger.

            “I would gladly trade the smell of fish for your former aftershave.” Hannibal remarked that evening, as Will, freshly dressed after a shower, was going on a small rant of _is it really that bad_? “I have provided for us entirely until this point, Will, there is no need for this.” He was leaning back against the counter, left of where Will was cleaning the fish at the island in the kitchen.

            “It’s not just about _need_ , Hannibal.” Will said, finishing and moving to wash his hands. “If we’re going to stay here, we have to keep up appearances at least a _little_.”

            “Perhaps then, it is time we discuss our departure.” Hannibal said tentatively. Will sighed, but didn’t pretend to be surprised. The two months they’d spend in Marseilles had been an easier adjustment for Will than he could’ve hoped. They traveled France hunting killers and the nights they didn’t dine on fish they indulged with soylent green, Will finally open to the verity of his bloodlust. Mornings on the docks, evenings in the market or the Opéra de Marseilles, festivals crowding the streets at night, mingling with locals at the beginning of the night and watching for prey at the end. One of their first weeks there, Will had wandered into a fortune teller’s shop, Hannibal silent and skeptical at his shoulder, and had received a three tarot reading of the Fool, Death, and the Ace of Swords, and he had smiled to himself and asked for Hannibal’s reading; Three of Swords, Nine of Wands, and the Lovers, and this time, Hannibal had smiled, and they had walked shoulder-to-shoulder to their apartment in thoughtful silence.

            Will knew his comfort here was not a coincidence, was not a fact of chance but of fate. Hannibal had chosen Marseilles because he’d known it would make good common ground for them. It was rich with history, with culture and art that Hannibal loved and Will was learning to appreciate, while lacking the pretension another city might offer, grounded firmly by it’s strong fishing economy. It had a notable crime rate as well, which suited them both quite well on the time or two it was inconvenient to leave the city.

            “I don’t want to leave.” Will stated simply, rolling the dried trout in seasoned flour. He was accessing an old recipe, and an overly simple one, if he was being honest. Today, however, that suited him just fine. Hannibal went to the pantry and returned with potatoes, an onion and a turnip, which he set next to the baby carrots and sprig of thyme he already had set out. He went to the sink to wash and peel the potatoes and baby carrots. Will threw a cut of butter on the stove and it sizzled against the hot pan, filling the silence. “I like it here. I’m comfortable.” Will added.

            “As am I, Will, but to linger is to invite suspicion. How long can we traipse along this costal paradise and hope to remain uncaught? There are those who would still have our heads, framed on a mantelpiece.”

            Will sighed. He was referring to Alana and Jack, of course. Will had given an ultimatum post-recovery; abandon the search for Alana, and leave Jack be: if he wanted Will’s trust, this is how he’d earn it. Eating Bedelia would have to suffice—and for Will it had, but he knew that it was with regret that Hannibal had agreed to the terms. The discussion had occurred months ago, however, and to be honest, had slipped Will’s mind. He didn’t dwell on the people they’d left behind. With ghosts like Molly and Walter in his past, he couldn’t.

            “Don’t tell me you’re still upset about that, Hannibal.” His voice held an inflection of coolness that brought an edge to the words. The butter began to bubble in the pan and he tossed the floured fish into the batter. “Alana was dangerous when she was working with Mason because she wasn’t scared. She has a son now. She’s probably planning to spend the rest of her life in holed up in Canada. She won’t attack unless we make the first move and _Jack_ is probably still waiting in that chapel in Italy. Hannibal…I don’t want to leave.”

            Hannibal sighed, setting aside the peeled potatoes and baby carrots to halve the onions and quarter the turnips on the island, in the cleared space where Will had cleaned the fish. Will retrieved the second fish and rolled it in the flour as he had it’s dead companion, and tossed it into the frying pan next to it, butter sizzling loudly in the kitchen. To Will, the smell of fish was a comforting, familiar one, and had not at all begun to get old. He found it difficult to sympathize with Hannibal’s growing distaste for it.

            “I understand you don’t see Jack as a threat anymore, Will. My concern is not for Alana. I am simply ask that we meet the parameters of my needs in order to preserve our lifestyle. It will not be long before authorities realize there is a serial killer in southern France.”

            Will helped him finish the turnips, a skillet with hot oil on the stove already waiting to sauté the vegetables when they finished; there were _some_ benefits to having a partner, after all.

“You used to delight under the microscope of the authorities.”

“Only under yours.”

Hannibal flipped the fish and added another cut of butter and a sprig of sage before returning to the vegetables, which only needed about two minutes in the skillet. Will retrieved a glass pan, as they would need ten minutes of roasting before they were ready to be served, and leaned against Hannibal with a sigh.

            “Where will we go next? Have you already talked to Chiyoh?”

            “We’ve discussed it, yes. I though perhaps Greece, in Kos or Thessaloniki; the former is renown for it’s beaches and the latter is a port city. Chile, if you’ve grown tired of our European excursions. She’s currently in Toulon, we could discuss it with her in person later this week.”

            That surprised him. Toulon was only about an hour away. How long had Hannibal been waiting to bring this up, exactly? Was the smell so bad?

            But Will smiled, pulling away so that could Hannibal transfer the vegetables to the glass pan into the oven, glancing at his watch to mark the time. Still standing next to him, Will wrapped an arm around Hannibal’s waist, leaning on him and sighing. It wasn’t even that he was so locked into the idea of being on a coast, or near a river—though he’d prefer it, for sure, and Hannibal knew it. There was no _requirement_ their destinations remain costal, but he did so regardless. Will thought on it, trying to picture them on the coast of Greece or Chile. His French might still need improvement but his Spanish was passable—he didn’t speak a word of Greek.

            “Do you even know any Greek?” he asked, a smile wrinkling the corner of his eyes.

            “Only a fraction. I am a fast learner, however. I wouldn’t worry.” Hannibal turned and pressed a kiss to top of his head, pausing to inhale the piney smell of Will’s shampoo.

            _No, you wouldn’t, would you._ He luxuriated in the moment and then they parted, Will to flip the fish out of the pan, topping each with parsley and lemon, leaving them on their plates to wait for the vegetables; his mind distracted wanderings of the different futures Hannibal had lain out before him.

            “Do you remember the first time we ate trout together, Will?” Hannibal asked, pulling the caramelized vegetables out of the oven and spooning them, piping hot, onto both of their plates.

            “Distinctly. Jack and I brought it live. The fish had their tails cut off and shoved into their mouths like they were committing auto-cannibalism. You garnished it with octopus tentacles.” Will’s mood was improved, but his tone spoke true his thoughts; the meal was a bit ridiculous, even by Hannibal’s standards.

            “Troite saumonée au bleu.” Hannibal recalled. “The beginning of your plot with Jack.”

            “And the beginning of my plot with you.”

            Hannibal tucked his head in acknowledgement, a smile at the corner of his lips. He was even less restrained now than he had been in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and the diminutive nature of the movement surprised Will, but it tickled him to remember the restraint with which Hannibal had once governed himself, hidden behind his veil, and now their eyes met, Will knew Hannibal had won. 

            A knock came at the door, and Will and Hannibal regarded each other in surprise. Will nodded in the direction of it and picked up the plates.

            “Go, I’ll set the table.”

            Hannibal went. The door to the apartment had no view-slot through which to examine the visitor, and he heard Hannibal’s voice call out a polite _“Hello?_ ” to the person on the other side as he set the dishes on the table.


	2. Chapter 2

The door burst open and slammed back against the wall, only clinging by force of will to its hinges. Silverware clattered loudly to the floor as it slid out of Will’s limp hands. He didn’t pause to think; he ran to the bedroom for the gun, yanking the top drawer of the nightstand out and grabbing his Glock. He squared his shoulders, his right arm forward, left arm bent and hand wrapped around the right to support the grip, and slowly stalked out of the bedroom. He could hear loud grunting coming from the next room, and he wince when he heard the sound of furniture break—so much for the antique coffee table from Italy.

            He rounded the corner into the living room.

            “Jack.”

            Jack Crawford froze. He was standing above Hannibal, who was lying on the broken coffee table, both of them stilled in the middle of their next attack.

            “Will.” Jack’s face hardened as he sized Will up. “I was hoping I wouldn’t find you here.”

            “Rather dead than with Hannibal Lecter.” Will was hardly surprised by the sentiment. He’d known this moment was going to come eventually and yet, as one often finds when facing down the inevitable, the imagination often pales in comparison with confrontations of reality. Will felt a surge of emotion flood through him, and he took a deep breath to try and control them. He could feel Jack’s harsh disappointment in the air. His eyes swept down briefly to where Hannibal was lying on his back on the floor and he felt the emotions grow stronger. “Get out, Jack.”

            “Will, you know I can’t do that.” Jack’s voice was firm and set, his face honed in concentration, determined. He probably had a gun on him, but he hadn’t drawn it yet. The second that happened it was over, one of them would end up dead and the police would be on their way, if they weren’t already. “It’s not too late, Will. Let me take him down, it’ll all be over. Molly and Walter--”

            “Fat chance, Jack.” Will didn’t let him finish. He didn’t want to hear about Molly and Walter, they were ghosts. Everything before was another life, another person, and it was him and Hannibal now, there was nothing in the past for him. “Take your gun and throw it on the floor.”

            Jack didn’t move, his eyes growing harder.

            “On the floor, Jack. Come on, don’t make me shoot you.”

            “Give me one good reason.”

            Will sighed.

            “It’s not what you think, Jack.”

            Jack raised his eyebrows at Will incredulously.

            “What do I think, Will? That you’re killing with Hannibal Lecter in France? The same _Hannibal the Cannibal Lecter_ that murdered Beverly? That killed Abigail Hobbs?” _Ghosts, ghosts. They were all ghosts._

            “You know what it would take to get rid of the Dragon, Jack. What it would take to get rid of the Angel-Maker and Tobias Budge, the Minnesota Shrike and The Chesapeake Ripper—you made a deal with the devil, Jack. You just sold my soul instead of your own.”

            “I got you to _catch_ killers, Will. Not become one.” He could see Jack’s eyes trying to map out a plan; he would take Will alive if he could, but there was no doubt—he’d want Hannibal dead. He grit his teeth together, feeling his heart pound strong in his chest. “Drop the gun, Will. Hannibal—“

“He’s mine, Jack. I’ll be damned if you take him from me without a fight.”

            Between them, he thought he heard Hannibal’s breath catch, if only slightly. He glanced down at him briefly.

            “I’m not a danger to you, Jack. We haven’t gone looking for you and we don’t plan on it. Get out.”  

            “I can’t let you go on taking innocent lives, Will. You know I can’t.”

            Will cocked the gun straightened his stature.

            “We haven’t killed any innocent people, Jack. Just other killers. That’s all the reassurance you get. Get out.” Will stepped forward into the room to back Jack out. Hannibal started to get up.

            In the end, Will knew it spoke more of Jack’s guilt than of his friendship that he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! If you hadn't guessed, the prompt fill was Will saying "He’s mine, Jack. I’ll be damned if you take him from me without a fight."   
> Hope you enjoyed!


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